The night had been crying of icy tears on the window glass
I kissed the glass a thousand guitars played in Buenos Aires
the night Eva Peron died.
From ignominy to a famous mistress, it takes a high-quality tart.
Sentimental fools had lost an icon, a dream, a fairytale princess
who would give the shirtless hope?
She screwed her way to the top and said, all right, Jack!
A grand mausoleum where we can walk around and spin into a golden calf.
In time, sanctified, and padres will tell of her of greatness
the pope will give her sainthood and include her in his prayers.